


Conspectus

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study of Bobby highlighting important events in his life from the time he meets John Winchester until the time his relationship with the Winchesters comes full circle with Sam and Dean on his doorstep in 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1982-3

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> [](http://s204.photobucket.com/user/ninjabutterflie/media/story_header_zps6727caff.jpg.html)  
> 
> 
> This work was written for the 2013 SPN-J2 Big Bang on Livejournal. Many thanks to my wonderful artist, Jana, whose art masterpost can be found [here](http://jadedworks.livejournal.com/3359.html). The chapter headers are incorporated into the fic with her permission. Her work is beautiful and I'm so fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with her! I'd also like to thank my beta reader,[Elise](fangornian.tumblr.com), for catching all of my stupid tense switches like a pro.
> 
> None of the AO3 warnings apply to this fic, but I'd like to mention that it does use some strong language and descriptions of alcohol consumption, as well as a brief reference to drunk driving. Also referenced are canon character death (Karen Singer, Mary Winchester, and Bill Harvelle) as well as reference to canon relationships (John/Mary, Karen/Bobby, Ellen/Bill).
> 
> A note on the dates: The dates listed for the first two chapters are off by one year. This is not an AU; it was a simple error on my part. The dates in the rest of the chapters are accurate. Due to the fact that Jana went to so much trouble to create beautiful chapter headers for this fic that incorporate the years, I am not going to be correcting them. Thank you to those who brought this to my attention, but I am aware of the issue, so please refrain from pointing it out. :)

[ ](http://s204.photobucket.com/user/ninjabutterflie/media/header01_zpsebcf10ed.jpg.html)  


**December 31, 1982**

“Looks like this is her,” muttered Bobby, coming to a halt in front of a headstone that read “Tanya Murphy.” He held up his flashlight and compared the name on the headstone to the name on the slip of paper he held in his hand. Raindrops dotted the paper quickly, so he tucked it back in his pocket where it would be dry.

“Great,” said Rufus bitingly. He had a shovel hoisted over his shoulder, and he swung it down and rested his foot on the blade. “Let’s get to work, then.”

Some people would romanticize this job, thought Bobby, digging his shovel into the dirt. Those people had never dug up a grave in the middle of the night in the pouring rain. Grave-digging was Bobby’s least favorite thing – the scent hung around for days, no matter how accustomed to it you thought you were.

It was raining hard and they’d been out in it for far too long. Bobby was shivering, his fingers were so cold they hurt, and he was past ready to go and kick his feet up with a beer.

Finally, Rufus’s shovel hit something solid with a dull clunk, and they cleared away the rest of the dirt to reveal a coffin. A couple of sharp thrusts with the shovel broke it in, revealing the skeleton inside, and Bobby would have groaned with relief had they not had to fill the grave back in.

It got better when the spirit showed up before they were finished, angry that they were trying to burn her bones. She flicked Bobby into the nearest tree in that supernatural way that ghosts had, and he slid to the ground with a thump and a loud curse. Rufus, having already doused the bones in gasoline and salt, scrambled for the lighter, and he threw it into the grave before the ghost could come after him, too. She disappeared, shrieking, into a column of flame, and both of them relaxed a little.

“Come on, Bobby, gettin’ knocked on your ass ain’t gonna get you out of helpin’me fill this back in!”

Bobby cursed at him.

 

 

Finally, Bobby swung himself up onto a barstool at the Roadhouse. It was full of people – hunters mostly, some he recognized and some he didn’t, but everyone had that hard look about them – which made sense, seeing as it was New Year’s Eve and everyone was in the mood to celebrate.

Bobby and Rufus were no exception. Ellen sauntered over to them from behind the bar with a smile, then wrinkled her nose as she got close.

“You boys been out diggin’ graves?” she said, frowning at them. “You stink.”

Bobby laughed. “Yes ma’am, and we’re lookin’ to celebrate a hunt well done.”

Ellen eyed them for a moment. “Nobody got hurt? I guess that’s as good a reason to celebrate as any. First one’s on the house,” she said, pulling some shot glasses out from under the bar. After considering a couple bottles, she pulled one off the shelf and poured them each a shot.

“Think you boys’ll like this stuff,” she said. “I know how you two are with good old scotch.”

“Aw, You know us too well, Ellen,” said Rufus cheerfully, tipping his back and making a contented sound.

A few shots later, Bobby was tipsy enough to cheer loudly with everyone else as they counted down to midnight.

 

 

**January 1, 1983**

Bobby hated driving hung over. It made the relatively short drive home from the Roadhouse feel like an eternity. When he finally pulled into his own driveway at the Singer Salvage Yard, all he wanted to do was put his feet up and take the rest of the day off.

He trudged into the house and flung his duffel bag onto the couch, to be dealt with later in favor of making a beeline for the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, and popping about five aspirin. Absentmindedly, he hit the “play” button on his voicemail machine while he sipped his water, knowing he should at least listen to them in case there was anything urgent, but not really having any intention of answering those calls until tomorrow.

He skipped over a few of the messages. They were mostly about information to add to his notes– new techniques hunters had picked up. . The last message on his answering machine was from a voice he didn’t recognize.

“Hello, my name is John Winchester and I’m calling for Bobby Singer. I was given your number by the man who was working my wife’s case, and I have some questions for you. My number is...”

Bobby jotted down his number, but scowled at the pad of paper he kept by the phone. He could sense that this kid was twenty-something and knew nothing about hunting, or what he was getting himself into.

Bobby didn’t call him back.

 

 

**January 5, 1983**

“No,” said Bobby, shifting his phone to the other ear and interrupting the argument coming from the other end. “No,” he said. “I’m not a babysitter. It’s not my job and you know what, you have no idea what you’re asking me to do. No idea . Get a gym membership or something.”

The guy was insistent, and it made Bobby wish he could screen his phone calls before he answered them. Or that maybe the guy could have taken a hint when Bobby hadn’t returned his call the first time.

“You don’t understand,” pleaded the voice, “this thing, whatever it is, it killed my wife, my boys’ mother....”

Bobby inhaled sharply. “You have kids? Are you insane? Your wife got killed so you’re just going to drag your kids along on some mad quest for revenge?”

“You don’t understand,” repeated the voice. “I can’t just bury her and pretend this never happened. That son of a bitch is the reason my boys don’t have a mother.”

Bobby understood all too well, but he kept that to himself for the moment.

“Well, John Winchester,” he growled instead, “You can’t bring her back, so do your kids a favor and move on.” He slammed the phone back onto the receiver in a show of force and went into the kitchen to get his bottle of whiskey in a preemptive strike on the memories that were coming back.

 

 

**January 10, 1983**

Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately – John Winchester was not very good at taking advice. It was only a matter of a couple days before Bobby’s phone rang again.

“What,” he answered gruffly, and huffed in annoyance when he was answered by John Winchester. That idjit.

“What do you want?” asked Bobby again.

“I have some questions for you,” said John, “about demons.” To his credit he sounded a bit.... shaken. Like he had never imagined that he would call up a complete stranger to ask him questions about demons, and part of him didn’t quite believe that he was doing it now.

“Demons?” Bobby scoffed incredulously. “What do you mean, demons?”

“Demons,” said John, laughing a little. “I’ve been doing some research, at the library, and I read some things-“ Bobby scoffed.

“The public library, huh? Not sure why you think they know anything about demons. Not sure why you think I know anything about demons, now that I mention it.”

John’s swallow was audible over the phone. “There was a man who was working my wife’s case. He... well, he gave up. Couldn’t find anything, I guess. The police didn’t, either. But he gave me your number and said if anyone could help me, it was you.”

Bobby felt an unexpected rush of empathy for him.

“How old are you, boy?” he asked.

“Twenty-eight,” he said, and Bobby felt older than he was. In truth, he wasn’t much older than John, but it had been years since he was in John’s position.

“What happened?” asked Bobby, even though he didn’t really want to know.

“I,” said John, taking a breath. “I don’t really know, I guess. I mean, I was asleep on the couch. I didn’t even go up to bed...”

“What did you see?” asked Bobby, trying to redirect the conversation. He didn’t want to talk about the painful details. He was all too aware of what that was like.

“I heard, first,” said John. “She screamed, from upstairs. I thought the nursery” – Bobby was suddenly horrified by just how young John’s children must be, and to have lost their mother at that age – “so I went up, but it didn’t seem like there was anyone there. But then.....” John took another shaky breath. “She was on the ceiling, bleeding. She was on the fucking ceiling.”

Bobby felt sick.

“I grabbed Sam. By then Dean was up, wanting to know what was going on, so I handed him Sam and told him to get out of the house. The room caught on fire, I have no idea how... it didn’t make any sense. I couldn’t save her.”

“Well, that sounds pretty demonic to me,” said Bobby gruffly, trying to be matter of fact. This was a case. He could treat this like a case. “How long ago was this?”

“November,” answered John quietly. “November second.”

Bobby sighed. “So if it was a demon, chances are it’s long gone by now.”

John was silent for a long moment. “I’ve been staying at a friend’s with the boys, if I’d known that it was, it was – a thing,” he paused for a moment. “I would have done something about it sooner, if I’d known that the police weren’t going to find anything.”

“No way to know,” said Bobby. “Finding it’s the hard part. There’s only one thing to do with a demon – you exorcise it.”

“Have you ever exorcised a demon?” asked John.

“No,” replied Bobby, “but it ain’t complicated. You recite some Latin at it, and that scares it off. Sends the damn thing back to Hell where it belongs.”

“You ever seen one?” blurted John in what seemed to be a sudden fit of curiosity. Bobby didn’t answer him for a moment.

“Yes.”

There was an awkward kind of silence, where, had they been in person, Bobby supposed that they would have been nodding gruffly at each other.

“Do you think you could teach me?” asked John, and Bobby dragged a hand across his eyes and stifled the urge to sigh.

“Your kids are Sam and Dean, you said?”

“Yeah,” confirmed John. “Sam isn’t even one. Dean is four.”

Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Come over. My library is better than the public one any day of the goddamn week.”

 

 

**January 14, 1983**

The next time Bobby heard from John, he was ringing the doorbell with two little boys in tow.

Bobby had always felt very out of place with children – and he didn’t enjoy the unwelcome feelings that seeing other people with children brought him – but he gave John a tight smile and knelt down to be on eye level with the oldest – Dean, he recalled.

“Hi son ,” said Bobby. “I’m Bobby. I’m a friend of your dad’s. What’s your name?”

The boy just looked at him with startlingly green eyes, and Bobby tried not to think too hard about how he had just described himself as John’s friend – which was a stretch, to be honest – and decided that the least he could do was tell that little white lie and invite them in for lunch – he’d make macaroni and cheese, the only kid-friendly dish he could think of that he knew how to make – and he and John would wait for the boys to go to bed before they talked about demons.

“Bobby, this is Dean,” said John stepping in to introduce them. “And this is Sam,” he added, indicating the infant that he had tucked into his arms.

“Come in,” said Bobby, stepping aside and swinging the door further open.

 

 

Talking to John didn’t really make Bobby feel any better about helping him.

“Whatever this thing is, I’m not going to rest until I kill it,” said John earnestly, eyes lit up with the determination that came with a good hunt. Bobby knew the feeling, but in this context it just gave him a sinking feeling.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” asked Bobby gruffly. John shrugged.

“I don’t know, but there has to be a way. There just has to. I was hoping you might help me with that.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows. “And how do you think I can help you with this?”

John shrugged again. “I don’t know. You seem to have a pretty remarkable library, maybe some research would help.”

Bobby couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t know too much about demons, or if this even is a demon, but tracking down just one of the sons of bitches is going to be damn near impossible, if not dangerous.”

John shrugged. “Dangerous? I can do dangerous. I served with the Marines, you know.”

“I bet the Marines didn’t teach you how to kill a thing that could end you with a flick of its finger,” said Bobby, and John visibly flinched at that.

“No, I suppose they didn’t,” he said quietly, not meeting Bobby’s eyes. “But you could.”

“No, I couldn’t,” said Bobby crossly, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Why not?” asked John, looking genuinely confused. “You don’t understand, that thing killed my wife, I have to –“

“I do understand,” Bobby cut him off harshly. “I just think you’re an idjit .”

John positively sputtered. “Why would you think that? If something killed your wife, wouldn’t you want to hunt it down and kill it?”

“Of course I would!” shouted Bobby. “But I wouldn’t endanger the only people I had left to live for in order to do it!”

There was a brief pause.

“You mean Sam and Dean,” said John quietly.

“Of course I mean Sam and Dean,” snarled Bobby. “They’re kids.”

“I would never put them in danger,” said John, somewhat indignantly .

“You are though,” retorted Bobby. “Do you really think that this is the best thing for them?”

John was quiet again for another moment.

“No, but I need to do this. I don’t want to be a hunter, Bobby. I just want this one hunt, I want to avenge their mother, and then I want to be done.”

Bobby sighed.

“You keep telling yourself that, boy.”

 

 

**January 21, 1983**

The next week, Bobby went on a hunt with Rufus. There was a haunting a few towns over- a salt and burn, pretty straightforward. Still though, Bobby never liked being tossed into walls very much and by the time they were done, he was more than ready to kick back with a beer. By unspoken agreement, he grabbed one for Rufus too and stretched out on the couch, propping his feet up.

“So tell me about this John Winchester you’ve been bitching about,” said Rufus, popping the cap off his beer.

Bobby sighed.

“Guy’s a maniac,” said Bobby. “I mean, kid’s got balls, but he’s going to get himself killed.”

Rufus shrugged. “And why do you care if he does? Wouldn’t be the first time some idiot went after a bigger fish than he could fry and ended up dead.”

“No, but the guy’s got kids,” said Bobby. “Two little ones. Mother’s already dead, and he’s after the thing that got her.”

Rufus frowned.

“I don’t want those kids to end up without a father, too,” said Bobby.

“Maybe you should help the damn moron and make sure they don’t.”

Bobby scowled and took another long drink of his beer.

 

 

**January 28, 1983**

It wasn’t that long before John Winchester called him again, and this time he sighed and said, “Come over. I’ve got a book on the subject that might be helpful.”

“Look,” he said to John over a beer in the kitchen after they’d put the kids to bed in the spare room, “I don’t want you to think that I approve of what you’re doing.”

John just looked at him, silent, waiting to hear the rest of what Bobby had to say.

“I don’t,” said Bobby.

“But I think that you’re going to do whatever it takes to finish this, and my opinion be damned.”

John nodded. “I guess I’d say that’s about right. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken,” said Bobby. “I’ll help you.”

The two of them didn’t say any more words about it, but instead turned their attention to research. Bobby went upstairs and carefully picked through his library to find a few books containing demon lore that he thought might be helpful, doing his best not to wake the kids, and went back downstairs, avoiding the creaky fifth step. The two of them stayed up all night, carefully poring over the books until the sun came up, and a dejected John admitted defeat when Dean came padding down the stairs.

Bobby smiled, stacked the books and put them on a table high enough that Dean wouldn’t be able to see them, and asked what he’d like for breakfast.

“Pancakes are his favorite,” said John wearily.

Bobby went out to the freezer and dug up some blueberries to put in them. He made Dean’s pancake into a smiley face.

After breakfast, he showed John the Devil’s Trap he’d found in one of his trustiest books.

“Never tried it,” he said, carefully sketching it out on paper, “But this book hasn’t failed me yet. If you paint this on any surface – a wall, a ceiling – and a demon crosses into it, they won’t be able to leave.”

“Sounds useful,” said John interestedly, taking his turn at copying it down, careful to get all of the markings just right. “Do I have to paint it with anything special?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” said Bobby. “Never tried it myself.” He lowered his voice, glancing to the living room where Dean was watching a movie. “Demons aren’t real common.”

“You should start a journal , to keep these kinds of things in,” advised Bobby. “Most hunters do. ‘S useful to keep a record, especially if you learn things that could be useful. We try to spread that information around.”

John nodded slowly. “I think I can do that.” He stood up and crossed into the living room, grabbing his duffel from where he had set it next to the couch and rummaging through it until he found a bound leather book.

“That’ll do,” said Bobby.

 

 

**March 10, 1983**

Bobby was minding his own damn business when the phone rang.

“Bobby,” said Rufus, and he sounded breathless and slightly panicked. Panicked was not a tone that suited Rufus and it immediately put Bobby on edge. If Rufus was panicking, things were not going well.

“What,” Bobby barked.

“When you get a call in approximately thirty seconds, you are my supervisor at the FBI and my name is Agent Dawson and your name is Agent Seeger and you are going to tell them that whatever I’m doing is what you told me to do, do you understand me?”

“Rufus, what do you mean, I’m with the FBI –“ the line was dead, and Bobby was staring at the phone in his hand with an open mouth, completely speechless, when it rang again.

“Agent Seeger,” said Bobby, following Rufus’s instructions on pure instinct.

“Hello?” came a voice, female and agitated. “My name is Leah Donovan and I’m calling regarding an Agent Dawson who says he’s with your office.”

“What about him?” asked Bobby, somewhat too sharply . He realized as soon as he said it and resolved to adjust his tone a little bit in the next attempt. He cleared his throat.

“He’s one of my best agents, ma’am. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said, exasperated. “He keeps coming around and asking strange questions that don’t make any sense, and I wanted to verify his identity with the office.”

“I can assure you, ma’am, whatever questions he may be asking, he has his reasons.”  
“Thank you, Agent,” said the woman, and hung up.

Bobby let out a deep breath, leaning against the nearest wall. That had to be the most illegal thing he’d done since his teenage years. He wasn’t sure if he liked the feeling.

The first thing he did after his minute of processing was to pick up his phone and dial Rufus’s number.

Later that evening, Rufus came over for a beer. It wasn’t really evening anymore – it was more like the middle of the night. Rufus had been out to some cemetery in the next town over and dug up a grave and burned the bones, but it was never too late for a beer and a talk between good friends.

“Hunt go smooth?” asked Bobby, taking a swig of his beer. Rufus snorted. “As smooth as salt and burns ever go. Bitch threw me pretty good once but if that’s the worst of it, it’s a good day.”

“Damn right it is,” said Bobby. “So what the hell kind of stunt was that that you pulled on me this afternoon?”

Rufus stared at Bobby for a moment, and then broke out laughing. ”Lady demanded a phone number for my superior officer, what was I supposed to do?”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” muttered Bobby. “You’d better make sure it never happens again, you hear me? Last thing I want is for my humble little operation here to catch the attention of the real FBI.”

“Of course, Bobby,” said Rufus, nodding jovially and taking a sip of beer. They didn’t say any more about it, but Bobby wasn’t the least bit surprised when his phone rang again the next week with a call seeking Agent Seeger of the South Dakota FBI office.

He was even less surprised when Rufus started handing out his number to other hunters – hey, everybody loved credibility – and just resigned himself to it.

 

 

**April 2, 1983**

Bobby saw John and the boys again a few weeks after that.

“Hear you’re playing FBI agent now,” said John, and Bobby growled at him, “You mind your tone boy, I am your superior officer after all,” and John laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It’s gotten to the point where I’ve set up a separate phone line, so that I know how to answer my own damn phone,” said Bobby. “So if you’ve gotta refer someone to the FBI, South Dakota office, here’s the number.” Bobby wrote it down on a slip of paper, and John tucked it into his pocket. “Hope you don’t need it.”

“Good to know, thanks,” said John. “You got time for a beer? I just finished a hunt in North Dakota, and it was, well – we’re all tired.”

“Of course,” said Bobby. “I’ll set up the upstairs bedroom for the kids. What would you like for dinner?” Bobby directed the last comment at Dean – who had grown since he last saw him, Bobby noted – who beamed.

“Grilled cheese?” he asked shyly, and Bobby nodded. “You got it, kid. And ice cream for dessert if you promise to go to bed when your dad asks.”

Before putting the kids to bed, they played a game of Old Maid, which was the only game that Bobby could think of to teach Dean that he would be able to play.

“If you get two of the same card,” Bobby said, holding up a pair as an example, “you can put them down. If you run out of cards, you win. You got that?” Dean nodded very seriously. Sam was watching interestedly but hadn’t made a move for the cards. He was a very quiet, sweet baby.

“Okay,” said Bobby. “If you get this card,” he said, holding up the Old Maid, “you don’t want her. You want to get rid of this card. If you’re the last person with cards and you have this one, then you lose.”

Dean nodded again. “We take turns picking cards from each other.”

Bobby shuffled the cards and dealt them out between him, John, and Dean. “Okay Dean, you go first. You pick from your Dad.”

Bobby lost on purpose, holding the Old Maid up prominently so that Dean wouldn’t pick it, and then laughed at Dean’s delight when he won.

After John and the boys went to bed, he stayed up for a while longer, nursing his beer and thinking about just how serious little Dean was, before he went to bed himself. He didn’t sleep well.

 

 

**April 3, 1983**

The next day, John got up early and left the boys in Bobby’s care.

“I’ve got a hunt,” he said. “Haunting, a few towns over. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two, I’d hope, but we’ll see. I’ll be gone overnight, though. You know how it is... can’t dig up graves in broad daylight.”

Bobby spit in the driveway, leaning against the Impala. “’Course I know, kid, I’ve been digging up graves longer than you’ve been believing in the things that go bump in the night.”

John laughed nervously. “Look,” he said, “the boys should be well-behaved, they’re used to me going off for a day or two by now... Dean will go to bed when you ask him to. Sammy might fuss but Dean knows how to get him to settle down. Oh, and Sam is allergic to nuts... found that out the hard way. Call me if anything goes wrong?”

“Sure,” said Bobby.

“Also... Dean knows about all this, the stuff that I do. No way to hide it from him. Obviously Sam doesn’t, but I don’t want him to know until he’s old enough. Just.... so you know.”

“You think I would talk about creepy crawlies in front of your kids?” Bobby leveled him with a glare. “I might not have kids of my own, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Right... sorry,” said John sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Git outta here. You talk too much when you’re nervous. Try not to get yourself killed.”

“Yessir,” said John, waving awkwardly before climbing into the Impala and driving away.

Bobby sighed and straightened his back in the ever useless attempt to get the kinks out of it. He figured he had a couple hours before the boys woke up. He decided that first thing was first, and he’d better head to the kitchen to see if he had anything that would appeal to the tastes of two little boys. He couldn’t exactly share his whiskey with them, after all.

When Dean came wandering downstairs, rubbing his eyes sleepily, hair sticking up at all angles, it was to Bobby making waffles. He couldn’t believe he’d dug the waffle iron out of some godforsaken storage cranny where it had probably sat since the last time Karen used it god only knew how many years ago, but he had, and it was worth the look of delight on Dean’s face when he saw it.

“Waffles?” he asked delightedly, perking up considerably.

“You bet, kiddo,” said Bobby. “I even found some maple syrup for them. Do you like syrup?”

Dean frowned. “I dunno,” he said, looking a little puzzled. Bobby frowned too, but said in his best attempt at cheerfulness, “Well then, there’s only one way to find out!”

Dean was about halfway through his first waffle when he paused for a moment and looked up at Bobby with a serious expression on his face in a way that made Bobby freeze.

“Wheres’s Daddy?” Dean asked, and Bobby sighed.

“Look, Dean,” said Bobby, “You know about how your daddy hunts monsters, right?”

Dean considered him seriously for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “He said I’m not supposed to tell Sammy about it. Cause Sammy won’t remember what happened to Mom. I’m not really supposed to talk about Mom.”

Bobby sighed. “Dean, you can talk to me about your mom whenever you want, okay?”

Dean nodded.

“Your dad is hunting a monster right now, Dean,” said Bobby.

Dean nodded again. He didn’t really look surprised.

“He does that a lot, doesn’t he?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” said Bobby, taking the seat opposite Dean at the table and leaning on it with his elbows.

“Is he hunting the monster that killed Mom?” Dean asked, and Bobby sighed again.

“Not today, Dean,” said Bobby. “He will, though, and I’m helping him.”

Chewing around another mouthful of waffle, Dean declared that he knew that his dad and Bobby would find it.

“Uncle Bobby, how long is my dad going to be gone for?” Dean asked, as Bobby was pouring him another glass of orange juice.

“He said he might be back tomorrow. So not very long, okay?” Bobby said. The last thing he really wanted was for Dean to get upset about his Dad being gone, but to Bobby’s relief, he took it pretty well.

“Okay. Can we watch some cartoons?” Bobby had never been happier that he was still paying for cable.

Bobby was amazed by how capable Dean was with Sam. Sam fussed when Bobby tried to change his diaper, and Dean just shrugged and said, “Don’t worry, he just doesn’t know you, that’s all.” And he took Sam from Bobby and changed the diaper himself – at five goddamn years old, thought Bobby, and he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or mildly horrified. He decided to just be grateful – he didn’t have any experience at all with babies, and being responsible for Sam made him unspeakably nervous.

Bobby made mac and cheese for dinner – again – and spent the evening acquainting Dean with Star Trek – because it was an important part of his education that he knew perfectly well John would probably neglect.

Bobby enjoyed taking care of Sam and Dean. He did. They were both quiet and well-behaved children, even little Sam. Dean’s quietness was deceptive; he was a curious kid. Bobby took special pleasure in showing him around the salvage yard, Sam in tow. He even popped the hood on one of his old junkers and showed Dean the inside . It was far too complicated for him to try and explain to a five year old, but he seemed fascinated by it nonetheless. Bobby thought it would be fun to teach him about mechanics one day. When he was older.

 

 

**April 4, 1983**

When John showed up the next day, Bobby saw him wince visibly when Dean jumped into his arms for a hug. After he’d greeted the boys, Bobby set them up with a snack and took John aside into the next room.

“So how bad is it really? Don’t try to lie to me,” said Bobby, and John sighed.

“Dislocated shoulder. And I’m thinking a couple of cracked ribs, now,” he said, “but I can’t be sure. Doc said my head’ll be fine, but if I have any dizziness or funny stuff I need to see a doctor again. And to try not to get my head bashed in again for at least a month.”

“Let me see the ribs,” said Bobby, and John reluctantly lifted up his shirt with his good arm, wincing, but didn’t argue. Bobby whistled at the colorful patchwork that was John’s torso.

“Bitch did a good number on you, didn’t she?” he said, and John shrugged.

“Suppose so.”

“Well I’d assume those are at least cracked but you’d probably know if they were broken by now.” He stepped into the bathroom and fished around in the medicine cabinet until he found what he was looking for.

“Here are some painkillers,” he said, tossing the bottle to John, who nodded in thanks.

“Now let’s take a look at the shoulder.”

“You ever popped a shoulder back in place before?” asked John, grimacing. Bobby laughed.

“Sure. My own, once or twice. Here, sit down.” Bobby pulled over the foot rest that accompanied his armchair and gestured at it. John took a seat.

Bobby carefully positioned his hands on John’s upper body. “On my count, you ready?”

John nodded.

“One...two....”

In a quick motion, Bobby popped John’s shoulder back into place, John biting back a shout and glaring at him balefully.

“What happened to three?” he asked, moving his arm gingerly.

“’S a whole lot easier to do that if you’re relaxed. If I’d waited ‘till three, you would’ve been tense. Woulda hurt more, too.”

“Thanks, I guess,” John muttered, standing.

“One more thing,” said Bobby putting out a hand to prevent John from walking away.

“You take care of yourself, you hear me?”

John nodded.

“I hear you.”


	2. 1983-1985

[ ](http://s204.photobucket.com/user/ninjabutterflie/media/header02_zps237fb7da.jpg.html)

**November 3, 1983**

Bobby knew it was winter when his old knee injury – from when he played ball in high school, no less – started to act up. Winters in South Dakota were cold, and it was days like this that he had an extra cup of coffee and daydreamt of moving to Florida or something. What a damn silly thing to think, though. The only things that murdered people in Florida were other people. Or alligators. Neither of which Bobby was very interested in getting involved with.

And he definitely remembered that it was November when a drunk John Winchester showed up at eleven o’ clock at night with a mildly terrified looking Dean trailing behind him, holding Sam’s hand. Sam was yawning and rubbing his eyes, tottering around unsteadily.

Bobby grabbed John by the collar of his coat and pulled him forcefully into the house.

“Are you mad, driving here drunk?” he hissed, restraining himself from any further commentary because of the two boys standing there looking at him with those damn doe eyes of theirs.

“Come on in, boys,” said Bobby. “Let’s get you to bed.” Even Dean was tired enough that he didn’t mind trudging up the stairs without comment, hiding his yawn. Bobby rummaged through the hall closet, looking for some sheets, and put them on the beds as quick as he could manage while the boys brushed their teeth and put on their pajamas. In no time, they were safely tucked in and sleeping, leaving John to Bobby’s mercy.

“So please, tell me John, what the fuck were you thinking?” Bobby asked John angrily. He had already made himself at home at Bobby’s kitchen table, nursing a glass of water.

“What do you mean, what was I thinking?” slurred John.

“Exactly. I see that you weren’t. And what about the two boys you had sitting in the back seat of your car? What if you’d crashed your car and killed them both? What then?”

John stared at him stupidly, and then sighed gustily and averted his eyes.

“Bobby, do you know what today is?”

“November third, so fucking what?”

“Do you know what yesterday was?”

“November second.”

“And do you know what happened a year ago today?”

Bobby stared at John for a long moment with a hard look in his eyes.

“Yes, I know what happened a year ago today. How could I forget?”

“No, Bobby, how could I forget? She was my _wife_. And now she’s dead. Dead, Bobby. I’m never going to see her again, and all I have left to live for is hunting the thing that killed her.”

“And your boys,” said Bobby. “Don’t you fucking dare forget those boys.”

“Yes, the boys,” sighed John with a far off look in his eyes.

“You can’t just get drunk,” said Bobby, planting his hands on the table and leaning in to look John right in the eyes. “You can’t. They don’t have anyone else to rely on. So you’re just going to have to man up and take care of them.”

“I know,” said John, still sounding dreamy.

“Do you really though?” asked Bobby, narrowing his eyes. When John didn’t answer, he sighed.

“Bobby,” said John, slowly, “what if I never find this thing? What if I never kill it? What if I spend the rest of my life looking for it only to fail?”

“John, you can’t worry about that. You can’t. The only thing to do is keep going.”

“But what if I fail?”

“That’s a risk you have to take,” hissed Bobby. “Or you don’t. Choose. Your children deserve better than this.”

“My children,” said John heavily, “deserve to have their mother avenged.”

“Do you think that’s what’s best for them, do you really?” asked Bobby incredulously. “She is gone, John. And I’m sorry, but there’s nothing that we can do about it. Nothing. What you do have is your children, and you can do something for them.”

“But their mother,” said John. “She was the love of my life and it’s some bastard monster’s fault that I – that we – don’t have them anymore. Am I supposed to just let that happen? Am I supposed to tell my sons that their mother was murdered and I did nothing about it?”

“That’s not what’s important and you know it,” snarled Bobby. “Do you think they’d rather have you avenge a mother that they will barely remember, or that they’d rather have a childhood?”

John suddenly sat up straight. “Just who do you think you are, Bobby Singer,” he said, voice shaking. “They’re my children. You aren’t their father, so who are you to tell me how to raise them?”

“Someone who isn’t obsessed with revenge,” retorted Bobby.

“Look, I don’t have to listen to this. I’m going to bed.”

Bobby sat in the kitchen for a long time after John had left, feeling tired deep down and vaguely ill. He hoped that John wouldn’t remember that fight in the morning.

Bobby was in luck. John was very, very hung over the next day. He spent most of the morning sipping coffee and taking as much aspirin as Bobby would give him. It made Bobby’s blood boil to think about him driving in that state with kids in the car, but for the time being he decided not to say anything about it. In fact, he decided not to say very much at all.

“Good morning,” muttered John, dragging a hand across his face. “Are the boys up yet?”

“No,” said Bobby shortly. Bobby was surprised that John was even up this early, but he wasn’t about to question it.

John looked slightly bothered, frowning a little, but didn’t say anymore as he fumbled around for the coffee. Bobby silently swore that if John broke a single one of his coffee mugs, he’d kill the son of a bitch.

Fortunately for everyone involved, Bobby’s mug survived its initial encounter with John intact and the two sat stonily in the kitchen, avoiding eye contact, until they could hear Dean’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Morning, Dean,” said Bobby, smiling at him warmly. Partly just to make a point to John, and largely because he really was glad to see the kid. John didn’t get around to bringing them over very often, and Bobby sometimes got lonely. Maybe it was time he got a dog.

“Morning Bobby,” said Dean, side-eyeing the counter to see if there was any breakfast available yet. He visibly wilted a little upon discovering that there wasn’t. This was something that Bobby could fix.

“Whaddaya say to eggs and bacon for breakfast, kid?” he asked Dean, and Dean practically jumped up and down.

“Yes please,” he said eagerly. Bobby chuckled.

“Okay, why don’t you start by getting me the eggs from the fridge...”

They passed a quiet day together. John seemed hung over enough that he didn’t have too much to say, and Bobby continued to give him the silent treatment as much as possible. Dean didn’t seem to pick up on the tension between the two adults. Bobby took him outside to play in the salvage yard, leaving John to whatever it was that John did when he was grumpy and hung over, which hopefully included taking care of Sam, who stayed inside. As much as Bobby disapproved of a lot of John’s parenting, he knew that he would never intentionally neglect his kids.

He’d just do it on accident in the name of something more important, though Bobby bitterly, but he dismissed those thoughts when Dean found him where he was hiding in the back of an old truck and giggled, declaring, “You’re it this time!” and running away. Bobby let him have an extra twenty seconds, and then shouted “Ready or not, here I come!”

Bobby refrained from speaking to John very much at all until the boys had gone to bed. John had gotten up from where he’d been sitting on the couch for the last entirely too long, and headed to the kitchen. Bobby heard the fridge open, and bottles clinking, and said in a low, menacing tone,

“I don’t think you need one of those, John.”

There was a very heavy pause in the kitchen, and John came back to stand in the doorway of the living room, frowning.

“Look,” he said, letting out a quiet sigh, but Bobby interrupted him.

“No, you look here,” he said harshly. “You have children. You can’t just go off the deep end.”

“I’m not –“ John tried to protest, but Bobby cut him off again.

“Then what exactly do you call getting shit faced and driving here with your kids in the back seat?”

John winced.

“Look, Bobby,” he said, and Bobby frowned at him preemptively. “I just – it’s been a year since Mary died and – I just don’t know what to do, you know?”

“I know,” said Bobby carefully.

“But do you?” asked John, raising his voice a bit. “I don’t even know how I get through the day without her anymore. It’s been a whole year and it’s been simultaneously the longest and shortest year of my entire existence. I still wake up in the mornings and realize that I’m alone, but she’s already fading from my memory.”

“Yeah, I do,” said Bobby. “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone important, you know.”

“I don’t suppose that’s a story you’d tell me,” said John dismissively, and Bobby snorted.

“No.”

“I thought as much,” John replied thoughtfully. There was a long pause.

“Look,” said John. “I have to hunt this thing. I don’t know what else to do. I have to do something.”

Bobby didn’t say anything.

“Look,” John repeated with a note of desperation in his voice. “I just, I need to do this, but it’s been a year now. A whole year, Bobby, and I have almost nothing to go on. No leads, nothing to look into, just... nothing.”

Bobby sighed.

“What if I fail? What if I spend the rest of my life searching for something that I’m never going to find? What if some, some, _thing_ just up and murders my wife one day, and I let it get away with it? What if I never find it, Bobby?”

“Or what if you die trying and leave your kids orphans?” Bobby pointed out. “There are a lot of what-ifs in this picture.”

“I know,” said John miserably.

There was a long and fairly uncomfortable silence. John seemed occupied with his own thoughts, and Bobby just sat stiffly, waiting for him to either say something or excuse himself. Bobby still had research to do, so if the sharing circle time was over....

John stood up abruptly.

“What do you say to one of those beers just about now?” he asked. “Just one, I promise.”

Bobby glared at him.

“I suppose I could do one,” he said, grudgingly. John excused himself to the kitchen to get the beer, and Bobby scrutinized his retreating back with a frown.

Bobby should have known that one beer would turn into several, which turned into Bobby being too tipsy to tell John to kindly fuck off and not drink any more of his beer. In fact, he found himself getting up to go look through the fridge for more. When he didn’t find any, he wandered out to the garage to look in the fridge there, and shouted triumphantly when he did in fact find another six pack.

“Oh, good,” said John somewhat groggily when he saw Bobby return with the six pack. “We’re not out.”

“Cheers,” said Bobby, popping the top off of his bottle and taking a hearty swig.

The two took long drinks from their beers in silence for a while, and then John started talking again. It seemed like he ran his mouth when he was drunk, which was a truly unfortunate trait for a hunter. He hoped that John had the restraint to not get hammered at bars, or he’d get himself thrown into an asylum on accident. The thought made Bobby chuckle, as unlikely as it was, which brought him back to what John was saying.

“Mary,” he moaned quietly. “Mary is gone, Bobby, what am I going to do?”

Bobby didn’t answer him right away. He knew drunks well enough to know drunk talk when he heard it and he was aware that John wasn’t really talking to him, so much as he was talking to himself.

“It seems like just yesterday that we had Sammy, and we were so happy.... Do you know how awful that is, Bobby?”

Bobby grunted noncommittally, knowing that John didn’t really need a response.

“Really, Bobby, you act like you know so much, but really? Do you even understand what it’s like?”

Bobby went silent and still. He did not want to hear what John was about to say.

“I bet there’s a story behind you being a hunter,” said John in a low voice, almost conspiratorially. “You think you’ve got everybody fooled by your tough face, but I bet there’s something behind it that nobody knows about.”

Bobby didn’t answer him, not wanting to encourage him or discuss it. Instead, he took another gulp of his beer, wishing suddenly that he had something stronger.

“Come on Bobby,” said John, leaning in aggressively. “Come on. Tell me what it is. You can tell me, Bobby.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” hissed Bobby harshly, and John laughed. It was too loud, and it grated.

“Bobby, do you really think I believe that no one gets into this job without a reason?”

It was Bobby’s turn to laugh.

“Do you really think that hunters ask each other what their reasons are? No one wants to talk about it, so no one asks,” he said, taking another gulp.

“Well I’m asking what your reason is,” insisted John, and Bobby resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“You’re drunk,” he said by way of diversion, and John snorted. “Not so drunk that I won’t remember this in the morning,” he countered.

“Just another reason not to tell you,” said Bobby angrily. John was quiet for a moment.

“Come on, Bobby. You know my sob story, let’s hear yours.”

“I’m going to need a great deal more alcohol before I’m willing to tell you that story,” said Bobby.

Unfortunately for Bobby, John pulled a bottle of his best scotch out of the trunk of the Impala and Bobby couldn’t say no to something that fine. He sighed and held out his glass for John to tip the liquid into.

John let him sip on it for a moment, closing his eyes for a moment in appreciation of the fine scotch, before he pried again.

“Okay, Bobby,” he said. “I want to hear this story of yours.”

“You already know it,” said Bobby, slurring his words a little. “It’s not so different from yours.”

There was a harsh intake of breath that he could hear more acutely for having his eyes closed.

“What do you mean, not so different from mine?” asked John, and his voice had taken on a new, more cautious tone.

“Once upon a time, I really was just a mechanic,” said Bobby. “There was even a pretty pretty princess involved. That enough fairy tale for you?”

“I’m pretty sure hunters’ stories aren’t fairy tales,” remarked John wryly.

“So you started the salvage yard before you became a hunter, then,” said John, almost more to himself. “So you never moved? Never went on the road, after you started hunting?”

“No,” said Bobby. “Never wanted to. The nomad lifestyle ain’t my cup of tea.”

“I don’t think it’s anyone’s cup of tea,” said John.

“You don’t seem to mind it,” Bobby pointed out, and John laughed.

“Do you think I wouldn’t rather be sitting at home in the suburbs of Lawrence, eating my wife’s homemade pie?”

“Anybody would,” agreed Bobby.

“What was her name?” asked John after a long pause, as though he was trying to weigh whether or not he should ask it.

“Karen,” Bobby answered stonily.

“A nice name,” said John awkwardly, as though he wasn’t sure how else to comment. Bobby supposed he wasn’t.

“Not as nice as the woman it belonged to,” said Bobby gruffly, trying to shove down the sudden rush of emotion that came with talking about Karen.

“Mm,” said John. “Did she make pies, too?”

Bobby laughed. “She made a mean pie, and you’d better believe it. None of that store bought shit.”

“Mm,” said John reminiscently. “Who knows when the next time I’m going to eat a homemade pie is. Probably never.”

Bobby sighed.

“She was possessed,” said Bobby quietly. John froze.

“A demon?” he asked tentatively, and Bobby hummed his confirmation.

“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t see them very often, but they do crop up and they’re nasty sons of bitches.”

“I thought possession didn’t kill the host,” said John carefully.

“It doesn’t,” said Bobby. “But a headshot does.”

John just stared at him with wide eyes.

“Told you you shouldn’t have asked,” grumbled Bobby.

The next day, they were both significantly hung over, and Bobby was pretty mad that he hadn’t’ gotten any of the research done that he had wanted to.

And he really wished he could just stay in bed for an hour or two longer, but John and the boys were still here, so he groaned and got up, albeit very reluctantly. When he went downstairs, he found John making breakfast in the kitchen, for a pleasant change. Not that scrambled eggs was very much, but it was something.

“Good morning,” said John, albeit somewhat groggily. His hair was sticking up one side, and Dean was sitting at the table, drawing on a piece of paper that John had scrounged up from somewhere. Bobby just hoped it didn’t have any research scribbled on the other side.

“Morning,” mumbled Bobby.

“The boys and I,” said John, gesturing awkwardly, “We’re heading out today. Found a hunt up in North Dakota.”

“What kinda hunt?” asked Bobby.

“Sounds like a shifter but I can’t say for sure yet,” replied John. Bobby just nodded in response.

“Do you want to leave the kids here while you go? It’s only a state up.”

“Nah,” said John. “I’ve gotta get Dean back in school. He started kindergarten this fall, you know.”

“Mm,” Bobby just hummed in response.

Not many more words were exchanged before John was packing up the boys, herding them out the door with a smile and a wave and a promise to come visit “Uncle Bobby” again soon. Bobby smiled and waved until they were out of sight, and then went back inside and sat at his desk and put his head in his hands. He didn’t get anything done for quite a while.

Later that evening, Rufus came by. He had just finished a hunt and was looking for both a new one, as well as an evening off with some free beer. Bobby was only too happy to oblige – it had been entirely too long since he had seen Rufus. He spent the time before Rufus showed up searching the newspaper for any strange happenings that he might pass on to him, and had mixed feelings when he didn’t find too much. There was something that sounded like a haunting a few states over, but it was the sort of thing that he might pass on to Bill Harvelle or one of his associates rather than ask Rufus to drive that far. He’d mention it, he decided, and see what Rufus thought.

It was entirely too long before he heard Rufus banging on his door. He’d been restless and out of sorts all day after his confrontation - if you could call it that – with John, and he was looking forward to kicking back with an old friend for an evening.

“Bobby!” exclaimed Rufus as he walked through the door without waiting for Bobby to come and open it.

“Rufus,” Bobby greeted him gruffly. “Come in, I have beer in the fridge just for the occasion.”

“You know me too well,” said Rufus, clapping him on the shoulder.

“So,” said Bobby, “How was that hunt you were on? I’m assuming not too bad seeing as you’re here in one piece.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Rufus. “Salted and burned the bitch, no problem. Open and shut. The best kind of case.”

“Always good to hear,” said Bobby, tossing him a beer. Rufus caught it with practiced ease and popped the top off it with the bottle opener on his keychain.

“Any new cases in the works that might be worth my while?” asked Rufus, propping his feet up on Bobby’s coffee table. Bobby had long since given up on telling him not to do that.

“Not much,” said Bobby. “A possible haunting over in Minnesota but it’s an iffy one. Could just be the usual hysteria.”

“Eh, I might check it if out if I have nothing else to do,” said Rufus. “Unless there’s someone closer who might take it?”

“Not in my phone book,” replied Bobby. “Closest would be Bill but he hasn’t been hunting as much since they’ve got the Roadhouse.”

“Can’t say I blame him, lucky bastard,” said Rufus.

“Ah, well, what are you gonna do,” said Bobby, throwing back the last of his beer.

“You been on any interesting hunts lately?” asked Rufus, and Bobby snorted.

“Nothing to write home about, but I did have an interesting encounter with John Winchester last night.”

“Oh my,” said Rufus in a falsely scandalized voice, and Bobby scoffed.

“Really though, what’s the latest drama with him?” asked Rufus in a slightly condescending tone.

“Well, as you can imagine,” started Bobby, “he’s still upset about Mary. It was a year ago this week that she died. He showed up on my doorstep drunk as anything with those two boys with him, and he’d been driving. Idjit. Coulda killed them all.”

“The anti-drunk driving spiel is pretty funny coming from you, Bobby,” chortled Rufus, and Bobby glared at him.

“I may like to drink, but I don’t ever get anywhere near a car. I’ve had enough cars in my yard that’ve been busted in drunk driving accidents to know that it’s a bad idea.”

“Whatever you say,” said Rufus. “So John isn’t doing so well, is the moral of the story.”

“More or less,” said Bobby. “I’m worried about the kids. Dean seems to think that Sam is his God given responsibility and I don’t think John even sees that he’s a terrible excuse for a father.”

“Hmm,” said Rufus thoughtfully. “What makes him so terrible, then, Bobby?”

“He thinks that avenging the thing that killed their mother is what’s best for those kids. Never mind, oh, I don’t know, a normal childhood.”

“That’s some fucked up parenting,” said Rufus in agreement. “But face it, Bobby, they’re not your kids. Ain’t much you can do about it.”

Bobby sighed loudly and upended his beer. “I know.”

 

 

**April 8, 1985**

On a sunny day in April, Bobby’s phone rang and for once it had nothing to do with death or violence or anything sad.

“Yeah?” he snarled into the receiver, expecting John or Rufus or some other poor son of a bitch with a hunting problem. Not many people had his personal number, to say the least.

“Bobby? Don’t you talk to me in that tone of voice.”

“Ellen?” he asked, confused. “What’s going on, is everything okay –“

“Bobby, everything’s great,” she said, and he could hear her smile through the phone. “Real great. In fact, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Suddenly, Bobby realized. Ellen had been pregnant. How could he have forgotten that she was due this month? It seemed like only yesterday that she and Bill had announced that they were expecting. He maybe didn’t keep in touch with the Harvelles as much as he should, but that was a –

It was great.

“Ellen,” he said, smiling broadly, “when can I come out?”

“Anytime you like, Bobby Singer,” she said, and he laughed.

“Boy or girl? What’d you pick for a name?” Ellen laughed a little. It wasn’t often that Bobby Singer expressed that kind of enthusiasm.

“Joanna Beth Harvelle.”

“That’s a great name, Ellen. I’ll come out as soon as I can. Maybe leave tomorrow, got a hunt to wrap up here.”

“We’ll be here,” said Ellen. “You take care now, Bobby.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Bobby, and Ellen laughed and bid him goodbye.

It wasn’t often that hunter had families. John was one of the few exceptions, and in his case Bobby didn’t care for it one bit. But the Harvelles were different. Ellen had quit hunting once she found out that she was pregnant – Bobby suspected that Joanna Beth had been an accident, albeit a happy one. But they’d embraced having a family. And it worked for them – they had the Roadhouse. They weren’t like John, travelling around with kids in tow.

It was so surprisingly, refreshingly normal. So many hunters didn’t get to have what most people considered normal rites of passage – going to college, getting married, having a family. As much as hunters were unfortunately needed, Bobby was always happy to hear of it when hunters made a life for themselves. Just because John and Bobby and Rufus had married themselves to the work and their revenge and their sorrow, didn’t mean that they all had to be jaded and bitter.

He hoped that Joanna Beth would go to school, and get a degree. And hunt if she wanted to. Any daughter of Bill and Ellen’s would have the mettle for the job, he was sure.

All of these thoughts of normalcy had Bobby in an unusually pleasant mood as he drove to Nebraska. No traffic, blue skies, and a ghost ganked.

He pulled into the parking lot – if it could be called that – outside the Roadhouse a little after dark. As he pushed the door open and stepped inside, he was met by the brightly lit bar. A young woman he didn’t recognize was behind the counter. He approached her, and she asked him, “What’ll it be tonight?”

Bobby replied, “Actually, I was looking for Ellen and Bill,” he said. “I’m a friend of theirs. Bobby Singer.”

“Oh, they said you might be by tonight,” she said. “Take the back stairway down by the restrooms.”

“Thanks,” he said. It had been too long since he’d been by the Roadhouse, and as long as he’d known Ellen and Bill, he didn’t think he’d ever been upstairs to their home. All of the good liquor was downstairs.

He made his way down the dimly lit hallway and up the stairs, and knocked on the door at the top. It opened, and he was met with Ellen Harvelle’s beaming face.

“Bobby,” she said, pulling him in for a hug. “So good to see you! It’s been too long.”

“It sure has,” he said. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Ellen this happy – she was such a serious woman, but you had to be, to earn the respect of hunters. Tough, too. Maybe it had been their wedding day. Bobby smiled a little at the memory.

“Well come in, then,” she said. “We’re having beers all ‘round, seeing as I can drink again now.”

Bobby laughed. “Well there’s something to celebrate,” he said, and Ellen elbowed him.

“You know me too well. But that’s not the only thing.”

They made their way through the hallway and into the living room, where there was a little white crib tucked neatly up against the wall. Ellen reached into it and carefully lifted out her daughter.

“Bobby, meet Joanna Beth.”

“She’s beautiful,” said Bobby, and while he had never honestly found babies to be all that cute, he wasn’t lying.

“Well come on then,” said Ellen, gesturing for him to follow her into the kitchen. “Bill should be home soon, he was just making a quick trip to the store for more diapers –would you believe how many we’ve used? Actually, I don’t think you want to know. Anyways, beer is in the fridge.”

Ellen cradled baby Jo – Bobby was already calling her Jo, but he knew Joanna would dissolve into a nickname, anyways – to her chest carefully even as she was digging through the fridge for a beer, and Bobby couldn’t help but think that she’d make a great mother.

Ellen talked Bobby into staying overnight – not that he had required too much persuasion – and woke him up with the smell of bacon and coffee.

“Ellen, you’re a goddess,” he said, stretching and rubbing his temples. He was a tad bit hung over.

Ellen knew it, too. She grinned at him. “Ain’t nothin’ for a hangover like some hot greasy food. Eat up.”

Bobby was all too happy to comply.

Going back to South Darkota was an unpleasant return to the reality of being a bachelor and living alone without even a pet. He had figured that cases would pile up in his absence, but he was wrong. In a stroke of luck, South Dakota and the surrounding states were quiet. He fielded a few calls from other hunters, but for the most part, it was a quiet week. Bobby tried not to be disappointed.


	3. 1991-1992

[ ](http://s204.photobucket.com/user/ninjabutterflie/media/header03_zpsbad1135f.jpg.html)

**November 16, 1991**

“You know why we gotta keep quiet about hunting, right?” asked Bobby. He made steady eye contact with Dean, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “’Cause Dad said so. He’ll get real mad if I tell Sam.”

Bobby sighed. “It’s a little more complicated than that, son. What do you know about what your dad does?”

Dean was quiet for a moment, not meeting Bobby’s eyes. He was fiddling with the cuffs of his coat, pulling at loose threads. Bobby could have counted the freckles on his nose.

“Well,” said Dean finally. “I know the he’s looking for the thing that killed Mom. And even though it’s been a really long time, he still hasn’t found it and he doesn’t really know where it is, so instead he’s just killing other things.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” muttered Bobby. Dean sounded bitter and resigned, and no matter what anybody said about teenagers and angst, he didn’t like hearing that kind of tone coming from a thirteen year old boy.

“Dean, what your dad does is important work. There are things out there that hunt people, that most people believe aren’t real, and only a few people know about them.”

“Those people are hunters, as you know. Your dad is one of them. So and I. It’s not a nice job, Dean. No one thanks us for saving them from things they believe don’t exist. No one pays us. We can’t tell anyone what we do.”

“So why do you do it?” asked Dean sullenly. “Why would anyone choose that life? It sounds pretty lame to me. It _is_ pretty lame.”

Bobby swallowed hard, regretting that he was the one having this conversation with Dean. “Most of us lost someone, Dean. Like you and Sam and your dad lost your mom. They want to protect people, so that others don’t have to lose people like they did.”

“So you’re saying my dad is a hero,” said Dean. It wasn’t a question, but his tone was carefully neutral. Like he was trying to contain his disgust.

“It’s not as simple as heroes and villains, Dean,” said Bobby. “I don’t mean to put your dad on a pedestal – or any other hunter, for that matter. We do dirty, nasty work. Sometimes people get hurt, or killed. Sometimes it’s our fault, and sometimes we can’t help it or stop it. And sometimes, our work hurts the people we care about.” Bobby made careful eye contact with Dean, who flinched a little like Bobby was reading his darkest secrets just off the surface of his eyes.

“I’m going to be honest here, Dean,” said Bobby. “I don’t always think that your dad is doing right by you and Sam.”

Dean looked at him sharply.

“But that’s your dad’s decision to make. All I can do is try to do my best by you when you’re here. And all you can do is do your best by Sam. You understand me?”

Dean nodded slowly.

“Someday, your dad and I will tell Sam all about what we do, but you understand why that’s a lot for a kid his age. I know you never had the opportunity to grow up in a world without monsters. But he has that opportunity, Dean. At least for a little while longer.”

“Okay,” agreed Dean. “It’ll just scare him, anyways. He can be a real baby.”

Bobby smiled crookedly. “I promise we’ll tell him, and soon, I’m sure, but for now, don’t you think it’d be best if the only thing he were scared of was the monsters under his bed?”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, he’s terrified of those. He’d probably pee his pants if we told him they were real.”

“But they aren’t real, Dean,” corrected Bobby gently. “You and your dad make sure there’s never any monsters under his bed.”

Dean smiled. “Yeah, we do.”

“Good boy,” said Bobby. “Now, let’s go find your brother. Your dad won’t be home until late, and it’s supposed to be clear tonight.”

“Why does that matter?” asked Dean, bewildered.

“You’ll see. Now, go find your brother.”

An hour later found them sitting on the tailgate of a junker in Bobby’s salvage yard.

“Shooting stars,” said Sam, enchanted. His face was turned up towards the sky, eyes roving around in hopes of catching a glimpse of a shooting star.

“I saw one!” he exclaimed, pointing gleefully.

“I missed it,” said Dean glumly. “Oh well, make a wish, Sammy.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut and was still for a moment, and then grinned and opened them.

“I wished! Wanna know what I wished for?”

“You can’t tell people what you wished for, or it won’t come true,” admonished Dean.

“Boys, this meteor shower is called the Leonids. It happens every November, like clockwork. There are comets that orbit the sun, see, and lots of crap flies off them as they move through space. When the Earth gets close to the comet, all that stuff comes through the Earth’s atmosphere and burns up as it does.”

“What’s a comet?” asked Sam, at the same time as Dean muttered “So these shooting stars are really just space junk?” He looked deeply unimpressed.

Bobby laughed. “A comet is basically a big chunk of rock flying through space. So.... meteors are bits of space rock.”

“Cool!” Sam said enthusiastically, looking upwards again to see if he could spot another one. Dean smiled fondly at him.

“See all those stars up there?”

“Yes,” Dean snarked, rolling his eyes. Bobby glared at him. “Shut up and listen, idjit.”

“The stars move across the sky as the night goes on. Have you learned in school yet how the Earth turns, Sam?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “So as the Earth turns, the stars look like they’re moving?”

“That’s right,” said Bobby proudly. “Since the stars don’t actually move, they look different depending on where you are on Earth. So they can be used to figure out where you are.”

“Cool!” said Sam. Dean was silent, but Bobby could see him looking at the sky, concentrating.

“Do you boys know any constellations already?”

“Well, I know Orion,” said Dean, squinting one eye and pointing. “Up there, the one with three stars right in a row.”

“Atta boy,” said Bobby. “I’m gonna teach you boys the rest, so that you’ll always know where you are.”

 

 

**December 24, 1991**

“Another beer?”

Rufus snorted, and Bobby took that as his cue to toss him another. Rufus popped the top off with practiced ease, and took a long swig. They’d both had a few, by then, and it was starting to dull the ache in Bobby’s bones. He’d never thought of himself as being terribly old, but suddenly the strain of getting tossed into walls at the flick of a spirit’s fingers was taking more and more of a toll on him. He stretched, rolling his shoulders back, before sitting down in the worn leather armchair with a groan. It felt so damn good to put his feet up.

He popped the cap off his own beer. There was nothing like a cold beer with a friend after a hunt.

“So, looks like we’ll be out of work on Christmas this year,” mused Rufus, and Bobby scoffed.

“Don’t speak too soon there, or next thing you know we’ll be up to our knees in Santa’s rabid reindeer or somethin’.”

Rufus laughed. “No really, though. Can’t remember the last time I wasn’t hunting over Christmas.”

“Me neither,” said Bobby. “Been a while. Any plans?”

Rufus laughed outright at that. “Who do you think I have to have plans with, Bobby?”

“Just askin’,” said Bobby with a shrug. “Wanna hang around?”

“Sure,” said Rufus. “Only if there’ll be beer.”

“Got plenty of beer, ya idjit,” huffed Bobby, “and if by some miracle we run out and aren’t dead, there are stores for that.”

“Sounds like a plan then,” said Rufus.

“We’ll get a pizza or something,” decided Bobby. “Watch some football. I dunno.”

“Gonna tell you right now, I didn’t get you anything,” warned Rufus, and it was Bobby’s turn to laugh.

“Come on, Santa, I been asking for a pony since I was ten,” snarked Bobby, and Rufus threw his beer cap at him.

“We’re alive and not bleeding, I s’ppose that makes for as good a Christmas as any,” said Bobby after a moment’s pause. Rufus laughed.

“Count your blessings, Bobby, cause that might not be true tomorrow.”

“I’d knock on wood if I were the least bit superstitious,” said Bobby wryly.

“Funny how that works, innit? For all the big bad monsters out there, we still have no idea if breaking a mirror is actually unlucky.”

“Might explain a whole lotta my life,” muttered Bobby.

“Cheer up, Bobby, we’ve got beer,” said Rufus helpfully.

The two sat in a companionable silence for quite some time before Bobby realized that Rufus had fallen asleep in his armchair. Smiling and shaking his head, and moving Rufus’s beer so that it wouldn’t spill all over his furniture, he fished around until he found a reasonably clean blanket and draped it over him. It got wicked cold in the winter, especially downstairs. That done, Bobby dumped his own beer bottle in the kitchen sink and made his way to his bed upstairs. Screw sleeping on the couch.

They spent Christmas quietly. Bobby, in a charitable mood, surprised Rufus with scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast, and endured Rufus’s teasing about his cooking without comment. They watched some game that Bobby neither knew nor cared about. They ordered a pizza with all the toppings because they spent too long arguing about which ones they wanted, and ultimately decided that they should just get them all and pick off whatever they didn’t want, no matter how juvenile that was. They spent the entire day pleasantly buzzed on cheap beer. Bobby gave Rufus a bottle of nice scotch that he’d happened to have sitting around in his basement, and Rufus gave him a bottle of, shall we say, quality painkillers, and Bobby didn’t ask him where he’d gotten them. It certainly wasn’t what you’d call a special Christmas by anyone’s standards, but it was good enough for them.

 

 

**December 27, 1991**

“What do you mean you just finished a hunt?”

“I.. just finished a hunt? What, Bobby?” John’s voice seemed genuinely confused over the phone, and Bobby was practically growling at him.

“Do you mean to tell me that you were hunting over Christmas?”

“Yes? What’s the problem? I’m pretty damn sure you don’t celebrate it, so it’s not like I shorted you an invitation to Christmas dinner.” Now John sounded legitimately annoyed.

“What did Sam and Dean do over Christmas?” asked Bobby in a dangerously calm voice.

“They.... I left them in the hotel room while I was hunting. Dean’s plenty old enough to take care of the both of them.” He made it sound like this was a perfectly reasonable choice of action.

“So you left your kids alone on Christmas,” said Bobby heavily. “Jesus Christ John, you could’ve left them with me.”

“I would have, if I’d known that it would be such a big deal!” huffed John. “The boys didn’t seem to mind.”

“Of course they didn’t,” muttered Bobby. “You idjit. You fucking idjit. Leaving your kids alone on Christmas.”

There was a long pause.

“Look, I’ll bring them by soon. Maybe for Dean’s birthday,” said John, sounding a touch apologetic, but mostly placating. Like he mostly didn’t want Bobby to be mad at him.

“I’d like that,” said Bobby. “But ask Dean.”

“Uh... of course,” said John hurriedly. “Look, I’ll talk to him about it. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Bobby gruffly.

“Got a case for me in the meantime?”

Bobby sighed.

“Yeah, haunting in Minnesota. Just hang on a minute, let me look up the specs.”

 

 

**January 23, 1992**

“I thought maybe you could take Dean shooting tomorrow. I got him a gun for his birthday. He’ll be fourteen, it’s about time he had his own, don’t you think?” said John conversationally.

“Mm,” Bobby grunted noncommittally. “Does he want to shoot tomorrow?”

“Well, I haven’t asked him. Aren’t birthday presents supposed to be a surprise?” reasoned John, shrugging, and Bobby sighed.

“I suppose. I’ll set up the practice cans,” acquiesced Bobby, albeit a bit grudgingly.

“Good,” said John. “I know how much he likes you. Thought he might rather practice with you than dear old dad. You know how fourteen year olds are.”

“Not sure I do anymore, it’s been a while,” Bobby deadpanned, and John looked confused about how to respond for a moment before changing the topic.

“Well, if you’ll take him shooting, I’ll spend the afternoon following some leads on that haunting a few towns over. He won’t miss me if he’s hanging out with his Uncle Bobby.”

Bobby clenched his jaw but didn’t say anything. Instead, he excused himself and went to bed, stewing over how John could so casually fob his son’s birthday off on someone else.

Dean was up earlier than usual, despite containing whatever enthusiasm he had for his birthday. Bobby made waffles for breakfast, and Dean opened his presents. The look on his face as he unwrapped the gun than John had given him was indiscernible, and he quietly thanked his father before digging back into his waffles.

Leaving Sam curled up in the armchair with a book – he had cooperatively declared that it was too cold to go outside and they were crazy – Dean and Bobby tramped in silence out to the back of the salvage yard, where Bobby had set up some targets for them to work with. Nothing fancy, really – just some tin cans and cardboard with targets painted on them.

“All right, son. This ain’t too complicated.” Bobby gently walked Dean through the steps, adjusting his stance and grip on the gun. “It’s a lot like the gun you’ve been shooting. Aim with the crosshairs and mind the kick, and you’ll do all right.”

Dean lowered the gun and turned to look at Bobby.

“Bobby, do guns work on monsters?”

Bobby sighed. “Some of them. Not all of them.”

Dean swallowed, frowning.

“Do you still want to do this?” asked Bobby gently. “We don’t have to. We can practice another day.”

Dean lifted his chin, taking on a steely look. “No. I want to. I gotta know how to do this stuff.”

“Why?” asked Bobby, narrowing his eyes. He sensed that there was more than met the eye here.

Dean’s shoulders slumped. “Sam knows,” he admitted. “He found Dad’s journal and read it, and – I couldn’t lie to him anymore.” He looked at the ground, like he was expecting Bobby to tell him off.

Bobby chose his words carefully. “He was bound to find out anyway, you know.”

“Yeah, but now he’s scared, and he thinks that if they got Mom they can get Dad and they can get us and –“ Dean paused for a moment, and swiped at his eyes. “He doesn’t think that I can protect us and I need to be able to.”

Bobby’s chest tightened uncomfortably. “Dean, I know Sam is important to you, but protecting him ain’t your job.”

“Yes it is,” Dean insisted.

“That’s your dad’s job. He’s your dad. ”

“And he’s never around!” Dean burst out. “He goes off on his hunts and leaves us in motel rooms and yeah, it is my job!”

Bobby sighed, taking off his cap and running his fingers through what was left of his hair.  
“I don’t know what to tell you, son. It shouldn’t have to be that way.”

“Well, it is,” said Dean sullenly.

Bobby sighed.

“Well then, why don’t you see if you can hit those cans. Breathe in, and when you breathe out, hold your breath for just a second. That’s when you pull the trigger.”

Dean nodded, screwing his face up in intense concentration. He raised the gun, carefully adjusting his posture the way Bobby had shown him, and made sure it was all correct before he raised the gun. He was very still as he stared through the crosshairs, and it was quiet for a long moment before he pulled the trigger.

The bullet went off into the brush behind the cans, skittering off the ground and kicking up a cloud of dust first.

Dean lowered the gun, looking both startled and frustrated. He looked down and scuffed his toe against the ground, looking angry with himself.

This, Bobby could fix.

“No one hits it the first time. Not with a strange gun. That only happens in the movies. Try again.”

Dean did try again, only to grind his teeth in frustration when he missed again.

“No one hits it the second time either. Try again. This time, don’t anticipate the kick. You’re expecting it, and compensating your aim for it. Just aim. The gun knows what to do.”

Dean scowled, but raised the gun for a third try. This time, the bullet grazed the can.

“Better,” Bobby smiled. “Let me tell you something, Dean. It took me six months to be able to hit a tin can, and I practiced every damn day.”

Dean looked at him with wide eyes.

“You’re a natural. With a bit of practice, you’ll be hitting those cans every shot, just you wait.”

“Thanks,” breathed Dean, as though he was uncertain that that was the correct response.

“Let’s practice a bit more, then call it quits. It’s cold as balls out here.”

Dean grinned at him, and they passed a half an hour with increased success and a bolster in Dean’s mood. When Bobby felt snowflakes on his nose, he declared that it was time to go inside.

“I ain’t about to get caught out here in the snow. Come on, let’s call it a day.”

The pair headed back to the house.

They discovered that Sam had spent his afternoon baking Dean a cake that he had frosted clumsily in blue frosting. It was lopsided and looked kind of mushy, but Dean was quietly delighted. Bobby spent a few minutes telling him off for using the oven when he was alone in the house and that he could have burned the place down, but he wasn’t really angry and he knew that Sam knew it. Mostly, he was happy that Dean was happy.

John didn’t show up, and Bobby didn’t mention it. No one wanted to mention it, not even Sam, and it seemed like everyone was happier that way, so Bobby let it go.

Dean even gave him a hug as he headed upstairs to go to bed, and he seemed in a better mood than Bobby remembered him being in quite a while.

It isn’t until late that he found Sam downstairs, sitting in the kitchen, absentmindedly looking through the fridge in the way that said he wasn’t actually hungry. Bobby lingered in the doorway for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Isn’t it a bit late for a midnight snack, son?”

Sam turned to look at him. “Isn’t that why they call it a midnight snack?”

Bobby snorted. Kid had a point. “It’s way past midnight, you know. But I get the feeling you ain’t down here looking for a snack.”

Sam didn’t meet his eyes. “I guess so.”

“So what are you down here for?” asked Bobby. When Sam fidgeted and didn’t answer, Bobby sighed. “While we’re still young, Sam.”

“I just,” he said, picking his words carefully. “I was just thinking about some things.”

“What things?” asked Bobby patiently. When Sam was reluctant to answer again, he said, “Sam, you know you can talk to me, right?”

“Yeah,” muttered Sam, not meeting his eyes.

“So what is it?” Bobby asked.

“Did you know about the monsters? That they’re real?” asked Sam, running a hand through his hair. Bobby sighed.

“Yeah, I knew,” he admitted quietly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Sam, somewhat accusingly. “I know why Dean didn’t. Dad told him not to. But why didn’t Dad want him to?”

“I wish I knew how to explain this to you,” Bobby said. “Dean, he didn’t get a chance to grow up without monsters under his bed. We just wanted you to have that, I guess ‘s the best way to put it.”

Sam’s chin jutted out mulishly. “There were monsters under my bed even before I knew they were real,” he pointed out, and Bobby laughed.

“You’ve got a point there, son. But do you at least feel better knowing that your dad and I know how to keep you safe from them?”

Sam sighed. “Yeah, a little, I guess.”

“Look, I’m sorry that your dad didn’t want to tell you. It was a tough call, and it wasn’t my decision.”

“I know,” said Sam thoughtfully. “Do you hunt monsters, too, Uncle Bobby?”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. “I have for a lot longer than your dad has. I taught him a few things about hunting, did you know that?”

“No,” said Sam, smiling. “No wonder he likes you so much even when you’re grumpy.”

“I am not grumpy,” insisted Bobby, frowning, and Sam just laughed at him.

“Why do you hunt, Uncle Bobby?” Sam asked, more thoughtfully. Bobby considered for a moment how he would want to phrase this.

“When I was a lot younger, the monsters took someone from me. Someone who was very important. Like how you and Dean and your dad lost your mom.” Sam winced.

“So I decided that I wanted to hunt them too. Most people don’t believe in monsters, so when the monsters come for them, they don’t know what to do. I think sometimes, your dad and I do good things.”

“I don’t want to hunt monsters,” said Sam. “I wish they weren’t real. I wish people didn’t have to be scared of monsters under their beds.”

“Me too, Sam,” said Bobby. “And I hate to tell you, but just because we want things doesn’t mean that’s how it is. Believe me, I wish that your dad and I didn’t need to hunt.”

“Is Dad gonna teach me to hunt, too?” asked Sam petulantly. “I know he’s teaching Dean. He’s not even trying to hide it now that I know.”

“I don’t know, Sam,” said Bobby. “He hasn’t said anything to me about it. Do you want to learn to hunt?”

“No,” declared Sam mulishly. “I don’t wanna hunt. I know Dean does. He likes it. But I don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” said Bobby. “I wish things were different, but there isn’t much anyone can do about it.”

“Dad could stop hunting.”

“Your dad doesn’t want to stop hunting,” said Bobby. “It’s important to him. He needs to find the thing that.... that got your mom. I don’t think he’ll stop until he does.”

“What if that’s not what I want, though?” asked Sam.

“To be honest, Sam, I don’t think that would change your dad’s mind,” said Bobby. “When something is that important to you, it’s hard to quit. It’s hard to give it up.”

Sam sighed. “I’m just tired of moving around all the time and having to make new friends everywhere I go.”

“Yeah, I understand, Sam,” said Bobby, not really feeling like he had any right to say it, seeing as he’d lived in Sioux Falls his entire life.

“When I grow up, I don’t want to be a hunter,” declared Sam decisively, looking at Bobby as though daring him to say no.

“If that’s what you want, Sam, then I hope you never have to hunt,” said Bobby.

Sam smiled at him.

“Look, son, it’s pretty late, so maybe it’s time we go to bed? I promise I’ll check for monsters. No monsters allowed in my house.”

“Okay,” said Sam, yawning. “Thanks for talking, Uncle Bobby.”

“Anytime, Sam,” said Bobby, smiling fondly at him as he disappeared into his room, sleepily rubbing his eyes. Bobby knew that he would climb into the second twin bed, the one closest to the wall and furthest from the door, without turning on the lights so as not to wake Dean.


	4. 1995

[ ](http://s204.photobucket.com/user/ninjabutterflie/media/header04_zps74f6fbc3.jpg.html)

**May 16, 1995**

It was late. Bobby had been researching all day, up to his eyes in old texts he’d drug out of the upstairs bedroom, and he’d found nothing. He was tired, he was frustrated, and he still had nothing. There was not a whole lot more he wanted to do than pour himself a glass of scotch and go to bed.

Bobby wasn’t unused to the phone ringing at odd hours of the night – it was part of the job, sometimes – but he was surprised when his barked “What?” was answered by the shaky voice of Ellen Harvelle.

First of all, there was normally nothing shaky about Ellen Harvelle. The woman had a backbone of titanium and didn’t take any nonsense from anybody.

So when he heard the tremor hidden low in her tone, he instantly picked up on how forcedly calm it sounded. That, coupled with how late she was calling, told him that something was very, very wrong.

“Ellen,” he answered her, softening his voice considerably. He wouldn’t have snapped if he’d known it was her, anyways. He’d been expecting another call from that dumbass Henry or whatever his name was, demanding an update on the research. “What’s goin’ on?”

Ellen took in a shaky breath, and clearly forced herself to say it without beating around the bush. Bobby could almost hear her effort, it was so tangible. He could picture her face as she said it. “It’s Bill. He and John were on a hunt. He... he didn’t make it.”

“Oh no,” breathed Bobby. “Ellen –“

“Save it, Bobby,” she cut him off harshly. “I don’t want your sympathy . What I do want is for you to come out, as soon as you can, if you can. Gonna have a hunter’s funeral, and I’d like for you to be there.”

“Of course, Ellen. I’ll be there. Not a damn thing could keep me away,” said Bobby, fighting not to say the reflexive “I’m sorry.” He knew the feeling, where everyone’s sympathy just made you feel sorry for yourself, and if no one said it you could convince yourself that you really weren’t so bad off, after all.

“Shoot for tomorrow, two o’ clock,” she said in a businesslike manner. Bobby swallowed hard.

“You got it Ellen. Let me know if there’s anything –“

“I will, Bobby, quit your fussin’.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he finished weakly, and she confirmed before hanging up on him.

“Balls,” said Bobby emphatically into the dark of his living room, swiping at his eyes. He’d been in this business long enough to know that losing friends was part of it, but it didn’t mean he’d gotten used to it. And Bill. Bill had a daughter who wasn’t that much younger than Sam, and now she’d grow up without her daddy.

Sometimes, he hated this goddamn job and how much it took from people.

Bobby tried to go back to his research, but the words just swam on the page in front of him, and he found it impossible to focus. He didn’t much care about whatever it was that moron thought he was hunting – he was probably wrong anyway and wasting Bobby’s time. Instead, Bobby just found himself staring at the clock as it got progressively later and later, resting his head in his hands and not thinking about much of anything.

And then he started thinking about John. John had been hunting with Bill. Bobby knew how reckless John was and it made his blood boil just thinking about it – what if it were something John had done? Ellen had never even mentioned to him whether or not John was okay – so Bobby assumed he probably was – but he’d never even asked, either, he realized with a chill. Despite the late hour, he picked up the phone again and dialed John’s number. No answer. Even though Bobby had expected it, he listened to the damn thing ring and ring and ring until he didn’t think he could take it a minute longer. He shoved the phone down onto the receiver angrily and took to pacing around the room instead.

He had been so tired, and he still was, in a way, but he no longer felt like going to bed, too worked up and restless to even consider it. He tried going back to the books, but found it impossible to focus and just swore loudly instead.

Finally, Bobby gave up. He marched into the kitchen and rummaged through his fridge. Beer, no. He wanted something stronger. Finally he went to his liquor collection and pawed through it unceremoniously. He pulled bottles out and examined the labels, twisting the bottles and frowning at them like they were naughty children that had somehow not lived up to his expectations. After some consideration, he settled on a particularly nice brand of whiskey that he tended to keep on hand for Rufus . He grabbed a beer mug and took the whole bottle with him back to the living room, where he sat on the couch and kicked up his feet onto the coffee table. Some days he thought it was amazing he even had one – but it was nights like this when he knew what it was for.

He poured himself a mug full of whiskey and sipped on it pensively, staring off into space, for a long time. It occurred to him that he might not want to be hung over tomorrow, but he couldn’t dredge up the energy to care.

Eventually, he fell asleep, curled up like a large, overbearing cat, arm hanging off the side of the couch, vaguely cold in the absence of a blanket and his back already bothering him. He couldn’t have cared less.

Despite his late night of drinking, dawn found Bobby up and pawing through his closet in search of some decent clothes to wear. He blamed the lack of curtains in his living room to block out the sunlight, but if he were being honest with himself, he’d admit that he was kind of a mess and that was what had him up so early.

Even though he started early, Bobby still found himself dashing out the door in an attempt to not be late. He felt out of sorts, disjointed, a little bit lost. It was all he could do to pay attention to the road as he drove to Nebraska. Every damn mile looked the same to him and the highway was too long, and too empty.

When he arrived at the Roadhouse, he wasn’t the only car there, although the sign that hung in the window had been flicked to “closed” and the inside was unusually dark and somber.

The door was unlocked when he jiggled it, so he went inside and headed up the back stairs to the apartment overhead where he hoped that Ellen would be. He had to take a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness – it didn’t seem as though anyone had even been downstairs today. The dishes from last night’s patrons were still sitting in the back sink and the bar clearly hadn’t been cleaned. All bad signs.

He knocked quietly on the door, and it was opened by Jo. Bobby was startled – he hadn’t seen her in far too long, and he’d swear that she had grown a foot since the last time he saw her. He remembered her as a bright, tenacious, and energetic child, but the girl who stood in front of him was uncharacteristically somber, wearing black, and had her hair neatly curled.

“Hi, Uncle Bobby,” she greeted him quietly. He realized that she had to be about ten now, and he almost couldn’t believe it.

“Hi there, Jo,” he said, bending down to give her a quick, but strong hug. “How are you doing?”

Jo shrugged. “Okay,” she said, not meeting his eyes. Her tone was so bland and flat. Bobby hated it.

“Where’s your mama?” he asked her, and Jo pointed mutely. Ellen was standing in the kitchen, talking to someone Bobby didn’t recognize. He made his way over to her.

She quickly excused herself from the conversation.

“Bobby,” she said, for once not happy to see him. “You made it.”

“’Course I did,” said Bobby gruffly, “would you really expect any different?”

Ellen shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Come on then, make yourself useful. I’ve got chairs down in the back of the roadhouse that we’ve gotta get set up out back. Not that many people are coming, but I’ll be damned if they have to stand out in the sun on a day like this.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Bobby. “Just show me where they are.”

In just under a half an hour, they had chairs set up in a loose semicircle out behind the Roadhouse. Bobby tried not to look too closely at the makeshift pyre – empty, for the moment. But he couldn’t help but turn to Ellen.

“This strictly legal?” he asked her, pretty sure it wasn’t.

She shrugged.

“Don’t much care.”

Bobby wasn’t about to argue with her. He just thanked whoever was listening that the Roadhouse was secluded. In fact, it was a beautiful day – the yellow of the prairie grass making a striking contrast to the blue sky, which was wisped over with just a thin layer of white clouds. It would have been a beautiful day, Bobby amended, if it weren’t for what they were there for.

Bobby didn’t recognize most of the people who showed up for the service. Ellen showed him back to a back room of the Roadhouse, where they had Bill. Bobby was thankful that he was carefully wrapped in a white sheet. He and someone that he didn’t know –another friend of Bill’s, Ellen introduced him as, but Bobby had already forgotten his name – were going to carry Bill outside. He tried not to look too closely at the figure wrapped in white, or think about who was under there and what state he might be in. Neither he nor what’s-his-name attempted to make conversation.

When they carried Bill out, they were exceedingly gentle, as though he would break if they dropped him. Bobby estimated maybe twenty people had come to sit in the chairs they’d set up, silent and sad against the blue sky. No one said a word as they carried Bill up to the pyre and laid him down. No one said anything as Ellen stepped forward and lit it, either. Ellen was never one for speaking when the words wouldn’t be enough no matter which ones she used.

They watched the pyre go up in silence. No one acted put out by the scent – although disgusting, it was probably not the first time any of them had been to a hunter’s funeral. Except poor Jo, thought Bobby, when he saw her ducked behind her mother, not meeting anybody’s eyes. But she didn’t so much as wince at the stench, either, her young face working so hard to be stoic. She was her father’s daughter, all right. It may have been her first hunter’s funeral, but he hoped against hope that it would be her last.

Everyone remained silent until the pyre had put itself out. It took quite a long time –he spied Jo shifting from foot to foot, in discomfort or impatience, he couldn’t tell – but this was their homage.

The sky was getting dark when it was over, and Bobby stood and couldn’t help but stretch, his back aching. Still silent, everyone filed back into the Roadhouse and sat disconsolately at the bar, where Ellen began to bartend, serving drinks on the house to her husband’s friends and allies. She had more than a few drinks of her own. Bobby didn’t see where Jo snuck off to.

He did notice one conspicuous absence – John Winchester.

 

 

**May 20, 1995**

He stayed with Ellen and Jo for a few days after the funeral, trying to make himself as useful as possible. After a few days had gone by, though, he knew that the hunts are probably piling up on his answering machine and he reluctantly made the drive back to Sioux Falls.

 

 

**June 20, 1995**

When Sam and Dean were done with school, John made the drive over to Sioux Falls with them to visit Uncle Bobby. Bobby didn’t even ask where they were going to school, anymore – he knew they’d have probably been to at least three this year, and asking wasn’t worth seeing the stark disgust on Sam’s face as he admitted that they’ve moved, yet again. Maybe that made him a coward, but they weren’t his kids and so there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

So instead he asked Dean how his shooting was coming, asked Sam if he wanted to learn, asked John about his latest hunts, and tried to keep the subject to safe things for the time being. Dean told him about a girl he’d been seeing back – he didn’t say home, Bobby noticed – and Sam told him about the book he’d been reading, some fantasy series – and Bobby was struck by just how much he missed having someone else around this house. Maybe it was time he got a dog, or something.

But once the boys had gone up to bed and John and Bobby had sat down in the living room with a beer, Bobby turned the tables.

“So, John,” he said casually, “I didn’t see you last month when I was, ah, visiting Ellen.”

John went very still, and chose his words carefully before he spoke in a way that made it plain as day to Bobby that he was guilty about something.

“I couldn’t make it,” he managed, finally, not making eye contact with Bobby. Bobby just snorted, taking a swig of his beer.

“Kind of an important event to miss,” Bobby pointed out benignly, in a tone that was all too innocent. “What held ya up?”

John winced. “Look, Bobby, it’s not that I didn’t want to be there –“

“Actually, I was under the impression that it was that you didn’t want to be there.” Bobby cut him off harshly, dropping the pretense of not knowing anything. “Look, John, I talked to Ellen –“

“Oh, and what did she tell you?” asked John derisively. “That it was all my fault –“

“That what was your fault, John?” Bobby lowered his tone and looked straight at John, who couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I –“ John started, and then he stopped talking. He was silent for a long moment. Bobby got tired of waiting.

“Look, Ellen told me that you were there. That’s all she told me. So why don’t you tell me the rest?”

“Look, Bobby, nothing happened –“

“What do you mean, nothing happened?” Bobby roared at him. “You were on a hunt with Bill Harvelle, and now he’s dead and his wife’s a widow and his little girl is gonna grow up without a daddy. So why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“Bobby, it wasn’t anybody’s fault except that goddamn shifter, okay? It was an accident.”

“It’s always somebody’s fault,” muttered Bobby angrily, glaring at John. “We can’t afford mistakes in a job like this, John!”

“I know!”

“Sure you do,” said Bobby.

“You think I don’t feel responsible?” asked John incredulously. “Of course I feel responsible. He was my friend, too.”

“Why weren’t you there, then, John? Why couldn’t you at least show some respect? I don’t think you feel responsible enough,” said Bobby.

“What do you know about how I feel about it?” asked John. “Actually, I think you know a lot. You know all about being responsible for someone’s death, don’t you?”

“Excuse me?” asked Bobby softly, although they both knew it wasn’t a question.

“You heard me,” said John defiantly. “Why don’t we talk about Omaha? I never heard what happened there, either.”

“Maybe because it’s none of your business, boy,” Bobby snarled.

“Sure, Bobby, it’s none of my business when you’re involved. Way I heard it though, you got somebody killed and it’s all hush-hush because you don’t want anybody to know.”

“At least I went to the funeral,” scoffed Bobby. “You can believe whatever you like about Omaha, John. This has nothing to do with Bill Harvelle and you know it.”

“Do I?” asked John, feigning surprise. “I hear you and Rufus won’t even speak to each other anymore.”

“You heard right,” growled Bobby, “So I don’t want to hear you mention his name under this roof again, do you hear me?”

“Sure,” agreed John easily. “Just don’t be too quick to point a finger of blame at others. I mean, it doesn’t seem like your record is so clean itself, does it?”

Bobby ground his teeth. “Omaha doesn’t matter anymore because nothing can fix what happened there . But you, John? You owe Ellen Harvelle an apology.”

“Do I?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Bobby emphatically. “Whatever did or didn’t happen, her husband died with you and she deserves your respect.”

“I’ve had enough advice from you, Bobby. I can run my own life.”

“Great,” said Bobby. “Glad to hear it.”

The silence hung heavy in the room and John sighed.

“Look, what happened with Bill really was an accident and I’m sorry that I didn’t go to the funeral. I needed... some time. To get my head on straight.”

“Understandable,” said Bobby. “But Ellen is the one who deserves an apology, not me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said John. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him. He got up, swinging his empty beer bottle. Bobby just sat and watched him as he wandered into the kitchen and put it in the garbage. He barely made eye contact as he made his way towards the stairs, looking forlorn.

“Night,” he said.

Bobby didn’t answer him.

 

 

**May 22, 1995**

Despite their fight, John and the boys stayed for a few days. John even took a few days off hunting, for once, and he and Bobby took the boys on a day-long hunting trip – the recreational kind. Dean was allowed to carry a gun – Sam wasn’t, and he honestly didn’t seem to mind too much. He mostly enjoyed the hike, and the wilderness. With so much of his time spent in motel rooms while his dad was hunting, he didn’t get to spend time outdoors as much as Bobby suspected he’d like to. However, when they finally caught sight of a deer, Sam got very upset and Dean refused to shoot it. Bobby couldn’t even be mad about it because that was just so Dean and Sam, but he could tell that John was disappointed.

“Aw, Dean, you almost had it, we could have had venison for dinner tonight,” sighed John, clapping Dean on the shoulder. Dean’s face hardened at his father’s obvious disappointment, but he didn’t say anything. “Ah well. It’s gonna get dark soon, so we should probably head back to your Uncle Bobby’s place.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so,” said Bobby gruffly. He noticed the broad grin that Sam gave Dean, and the wink that Dean responded with, so he wasn’t too bothered by their lack of any meat. Besides, it saved them having to haul the damn thing back to the house, and skin it, and cook it before they could eat. Bobby was hungry enough that it sounded like a chore, anyways.

“Come on then,” he said to the boys, turning to head for home. As they walked, now that they were no longer trying to be quiet, he pointed out different types of bird calls that they were hearing. He wished they had more time for him to teach Sam about other things – how to track, different kinds of plants and their uses, things he knew Sam would enjoy – but it was getting dark, and they really did need to be getting home.

Instead of venison, Bobby fired up his rusty old grill and made them burgers for dinner, much to Dean’s delight – “This is so much better than a diner burger, Uncle Bobby.” Bobby tried not to think too hard about how likely it was that John cooked for his boys on a regular basis. He knew John. John would cut whatever corners had to be cut to get the job done.

After dinner, Bobby got a call about a hunt over in North Dakota.

“I’ll take it, Bobby,” said John. “I’ve had a few days off, it’s about time I picked up another hunt.”

“Okay,” said Bobby. “Nice to have you around. Do you want to leave the boys here with me for a few more days, since it’s just a state over?”

“Nah,” said John, shrugging. “I thought I might ask Dean for some help with this one.” Dean positively glowed at the suggestion, although he remained silent. Sam sunk a little further down into his chair.

“All right, then,” said Bobby, his tone carefully neutral.

“Guess we should maybe get going then,” said John, standing up. “Sam, Dean, you help your Uncle Bobby with the dishes, then we can get going.” Without a word, Dean cleared the plates from the table and started rinsing them off. Sam stood up to help him, and Bobby watched them for a moment before getting up to put away the condiments. He didn’t necessarily want Sam to see the contents of his fridge.

A few hours later, they left, Sam and Dean with duffel bags in tow. Dean’s excitement was palpable, but Sam looked less enthused, so Bobby dug up a book on Celtic lore that he thought might be manageable for a kid Sam’s age, and gave it to him to take with, vaguely hoping that he wouldn’t need it for anything.

“You’ve gotta bring this back,” he said gruffly. “It’s an important book, that I use for hunts.”

Sam’s eyes were wide. “Thanks, Uncle Bobby,” he said, touching the book reverently, before tucking it into his duffel bag with a wide smile. Bobby could tell it was genuine, and thought he’d picked well. Celtic lore wasn’t very relevant to local hunts, so it was hopefully removed enough from what his dad did that Sam would still be interested in it. He frowned, thinking of his very small, abandoned collection of literature that was tucked away into some corner upstairs. He’d have to find those books so next time, he had something else to give Sam.

Bobby decided the house was too empty and drove into town. Drinking alone was something he’d done for too many nights, and tonight, he wanted some company. The bar was open, and in a town so small, he knew he could find someone to talk to. It was easy – warmly lit and inviting.

When he sobered up, he found himself in a holding cell at the station, with a very annoying, very perky, and very non-sympathetic to his hangover new officer – Mills, or something, fresh out of the police academy – telling him that she wasn’t going to write him a ticket this time, but if he was drunk and disorderly in public again, she would. She told him he got into a shouting match at the bar with a woman who didn’t believe in ghosts . He laughed, because it was funny, and she scowled at him.

The next time, he found that she wasn’t kidding about that drunk and disorderly charge.

From then on, he mostly drank in the privacy of his own home, thankful that puke could be cleaned up easily off of hardwood floors, and quietly, secretly mourning Rufus’s absence, because damn, no one else in the world appreciated good scotch like that man did and drinking it alone was a shame.


	5. 2004

[ ](http://s204.photobucket.com/user/ninjabutterflie/media/header05_zpsf6731dd8.jpg.html)

**April 18, 2004**

“Hey Bobby?”

Sam and Dean were visiting for the weekend. It was one of the first truly warm weekends they’d had so far this year, but Sam was cooped up inside poring over some paper he had to write for his English class. Dean and John had gone out back to practice shooting, but Bobby took pity on him and stuck around, working on a research project of his own. It was nice to have some company, for once.

“Yeah?” he answered gruffly, not yet taking his eyes off of the text he was reading. He was nearly at the end of the paragraph he’d been working on, and he hastily jotted down a few more notes before looking up at Sam.

“What if...” Sam cleared his throat, as though he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Bobby raised his eyebrows. “While we’re young?” he prompted him, and Sam sighed.

“What if I told you that I’ve been applying to colleges? And I’ve been accepted?”

Bobby was silent for a moment. “What colleges?” he asked.

Sam cleared his throat. “Uh. UCLA, Stanford. UChicago, Columbia, and Harvard.”

Bobby whistled appreciatively. “Those are some pretty fancy schools, Sam.”

Sam shrugged, as though it wasn’t a big deal.

“So where do you want to go?” Bobby asked, noticing how Sam chewed on his lip as he thought about his answer. He was still debating.

“Um,” he responded slowly. “I was thinking California sounds like a nice place to be, you know? So maybe Stanford. And they gave me a pretty great financial aid package too, which is.... important.”

“California’s a long ways from here,” Bobby observed. “How are you gonna pay for it?”

Sam winced visibly. “That’s the hard part,” he muttered. “Student loans, I guess. I don’t want Dad’s credit card fraud to get mixed up with my school accounts.”

Bobby nodded slowly. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing, then.”

Sam raised his chin to stare at Bobby hard. “Does this mean you’re supporting this?”

Bobby considered his answer for a moment.

“Y’know, Sam, if this is what you want, I’m not about to tell you no,” he said, with a small smile that he knew gave him away. “If you wanna get out of the life, now’s the time to do it.”

Sam grinned at him, recognizing the approval for what it was.

“You told your dad?” Bobby asked him, knowing what the answer probably was. He knew he was right when Sam ducked his head and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“No,” he mumbled. “Don’t know how to tell him. He won’t like it.”

“That’s for sure,” Bobby muttered. “Don’t know what to tell you there. Your dad’s gonna be difficult.”

“Yeah,” said Sam with a sigh.

“Just be prepared for shit to hit the fan, I guess,” said Bobby, shrugging, and Sam laughed . “Yeah, I will.”

“Want a beer?” asked Bobby, standing up and making his way to the fridge.

Sam stared for a moment. “It’s four o’clock.”

“So?” asked Bobby, tossing him one. Sam caught it with the tips of his fingers, dumbstruck, and then grinned at him. Bobby handed him his knife to pop the bottle top off, and they both took a break from their projects for a while.

 

 

**May 2, 2004**

Bobby’s phone rang. He was in the middle of a research project, wading through an intimidating pile of ancient texts, and he almost didn’t even answer it.

“Singer,” he barked into the phone. He was taken aback when he realized who was on the other line.

“Bobby,” said Sam thickly, and Bobby instantly softened.

“Sam,” he said. “What’s going on?”

Sam took a breath so deep, that Bobby could hear it from the other end of the phone. “Um. I made a decision about college.”

It was Bobby’s turn to take in a sharp breath. “And?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to hear the answer.

“Stanford,” Sam said. “California. I sent them my acceptance yesterday. It was the deadline, and I had to... decide.”

“Excited about it?” Bobby asked, and Sam’s sigh told the story.

“I don’t know. I mean, on one hand, yes. Really excited, I can’t even tell you. But on the other... I don’t know. I still haven’t told my dad.”

“Better sooner than later, boy,” Bobby said, and Sam chuckled weakly. “I knew you’d tell me that,” he said ruefully.

“Well, I’m glad you made a decision. Seems to be the hardest part.”

“That’s easy to say, I think telling my dad is gonna be the hardest part,” argued Sam.

“I don’t envy you that one, boy,” agreed Bobby.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Shit, my dad is coming back,” said Sam. “He and Dean were out doing...well, I don’t even know what.”

“It’s good to hear from you, Sam,” said Bobby gruffly.

“Thanks, Bobby,” said Sam, and Bobby could hear the smile in his voice.

“Happy birthday, Sam .”

 

 

**August 28, 2004**

“I told him,” the words came spilling out of Sam’s mouth and into the phone so quickly that Bobby had to take a moment to interpret what he’d just heard. The silence was a moment too long for Sam, who felt the need to fill it. He started talking again.

“I told him, and he’s mad, and I left –“

“Hold up,” said Bobby. “So you told your dad about Stanford.”

“Yes,” said Sam shakily.

“He’s mad.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re leaving,” confirmed Bobby. He was answered with one more quiet affirmative.

“Okay, do you know where you’re going? How you’re going to get there?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, exhaling loudly. “I bought a bus ticket to Palo Alto. I can move into the dorms on Monday and stay in a motel until then.”

“Atta boy,” said Bobby in approval.

There was a pause.

“Dad told me not to come back,” admitted Sam quietly.

“He did what?” asked Bobby in an incredulous, soft tone. It’d been a long time since he’d felt rage bubbling up under his skin like this, and it was almost disturbing.

“Kicked me out, told me if I left I couldn’t come back,” said Sam, speaking delicately as though saying it again was painful.

“I see,” said Bobby coldly. He carefully contained his anger. Losing his cool would do no good for Sam, who was probably already in a world of hurt over it.

“I guess that’s just gonna have to be okay,” Sam muttered.

“I’ll talk to him,” said Bobby, but Sam just scoffed.

 

 

**September 1, 2004**

The next time John came by, it was, predictably just him and Dean. Bobby didn’t comment at first, ignoring the haunted look hiding in the back of Dean’s eyes and the nearly unbearable tension that filled the air.

John was extra crabby because he’d dislocated his shoulder on his last hunt, and Dean was the jumpiest Bobby had ever seen him. It figured, of course – he was sure John had been extra unpleasant in recent weeks.

“Come on in,” he said, opening the door wider and stepping aside to let them in. It was a beautiful late summer day, but no one was in the mood to enjoy the weather. It was a shame, Bobby thought, because once winter set in, the weather would be just as miserable as all of the people standing in his entry way.

Dean retreated to the guest bedroom shortly after dinner, hardly even bothering to be polite about it, just tersely excusing himself without hardly even looking at Bobby or his father. John and Bobby sat in a long silence after that, not feeling the need to speak. John drank several beers in the silence. Bobby didn’t have any. He knew what was coming.

Sure enough, with a few beers in him to loosen his tongue, John started to talk.

“So I take it you know about Sam,” he started, trying to sound conversational. Bobby wasn’t buying it. He knew by now that John started off his nastiest moods started off with polite conversation. He could tell, because usually John never bothered with the niceties.

“I do , what of it?” asked Bobby gruffly, and John laughed somewhat maniacally.

“Oh, nothing,” said John casually. “Just that he’s gone off to college.”

“So?” asked Bobby, feigning confusion. “Most people are proud of their kids when they go to college, you know.”

“We’re not most people, Bobby, you know that,” said John, waving his hand around and rolling his eyes. “Sam isn’t most kids. I get that he’s smart, but really, Bobby.”

“Still not seeing your point here, John,” said Bobby, doing his best not to tap his fingers impatiently. He knew the signs that John was itching for a fight and he wasn’t really thrilled that he was the one John had chosen to take it out on.

“He left us, that’s the point,” hissed John, dropping the nice guy act. “He chose an education over finding the thing that killed his mother. That’s the problem here.”

“The problem I’m seeing here,” said Bobby with mock patience, choosing his words carefully, “is that when he made that choice, you told him to get out and not come back.”

John sputtered. “He abandoned us,” he said, and Bobby scoffed.

“No. An education is only four years, John. You abandoned him.”

“It wasn’t my idea for him to go gallivanting off to California to spend money he doesn’t have going to some fancy school to get some degree that will never be useful to him. ”

“Not everyone who’s associated with hunters has to be one, John,” said Bobby. “Did you ever consider that maybe he doesn’t want to spend his life killing things? It’s a thankless job, and I can’t blame him.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to, though? His mother was murdered by some – thing. Demon. That’s reason to be in the business if there ever was one.”

“John, he was a baby. He doesn’t even remember her. That’s your crusade, not his,” reasoned Bobby.

“It should be his, too,” said John, flaring up into sudden rage. “That was his mother. His mother. He’s never had one because some thing killed her right in front of him.”

“And the reason he never had a childhood is because he spent the whole thing tagging along while you tried to hunt it!” shouted Bobby. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that all he’s ever really wanted is to be normal? Who are we to deny him that chance?”

“Oh, we aren’t,” said John, laughing. “But he can’t expect to make a decision like that and be welcomed back with open arms when it doesn’t work out for him.”

“It will work out for him,” said Bobby quietly, and he felt it with a certainty that ran bone deep. Sam wasn’t your average kid, in more ways than one, and he didn’t doubt for a minute that kid would make it.

“Sure,” scoffed John. “You have no way to know that.”

“And you have no way to know that it won’t,” countered Bobby.

“Fine,” said John, rolling his eyes. “If you know so much about parenting, then he can be your problem when he drops out.”

“He doesn’t need a parent anymore, John. He’s a grown man and he can make his own goddamn decisions.”

“Says who? You?” John scoffed.

“Yes, says me,” growled Bobby, standing up and planting his hands flat on the table. “Sam is not your little soldier. He doesn’t have to spend his life fighting your battles. If he’s choosin’ to get out of it, I’m choosin’ to support him, and if you have a problem with it, then you can leave.”

John gaped at him, mouth hanging slightly ajar, and then stood up as well.

“Fine,” he said. He turned to make for the door, then stopped.

“Dean’s already gone to bed,” said Bobby. “You can stay until morning, but after that you’d damn well better get out of my sight.”

John simply glared at him, and stalked away.


	6. 2006 (epilogue)

**May 4, 2006 ******

********  
It had been a long week. More hunts than he had hunters, as usual, and no one to put up his feet with and drink a beer.

When he heard knocking at his door, he was less than amused. He was tired, God damn it, and someone bothering him could only mean something annoying. He wasn’t sure whether to expect a well-meaning neighbor, that damn Sheriff Mills harassing him , or a hunter wanting something, but it didn’t matter because he didn’t want to deal with it.

He pulled his door open, mouth open and prepared to growl at whoever was bothering him, but he froze when he saw who it was.

“Sam? Dean?” he asked incredulously, and Dean just grinned at him. It’d been a few years too many since he’d last seen Dean, but that cocky smile was as familiar to him as anything.

Sam was shyer, hanging back, not meeting Bobby’s eyes easily.

He pulled them both into a hug.

“You idjits, it’s been too damn long since I’ve seen ya,” he said gruffly, hiding his sheer relief at seeing them again.

“I wish this were a social call, Bobby, I really do, but unfortunately we’ve got a problem,” said Dean. “A big one.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
